I was feeling sorry for myself yesterday, because I had to sign the contract for the sale of Ma’s house, delaying, pushing the papers around my desk, thinking - this is the last step, the last step and I don’t want to take it. It’s the final tangible goodbye.
One of the papers had to be signed with a witness, so I went to see a neighbour. I left the other two papers that did not need a witness, and went to mow the lawn. But the morning passed, and I had to get them in the lunchtime post, so in the end, I grabbed the papers and signed them in a rush like ripping off elastoplast.
Meanwhile, my 75 year old neighbour, who has been on 24 hour oxygen for over a year, is now too ill to be at home on his own, and yesterday was taken to hospital and thence to a care home. He has lived in that nice little house with the sunny, sheltered and pretty front garden since he was born. He will never see it again.
Meanwhile, a family in Pakistan has had their home washed away by the floods.
And here am I feeling sorry for myself?
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